In Silence
by Sita Z
Summary: Trip has been alone for most of his life, and so has Malcolm. AU, TripMalcolm friendship.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not making any money, just borrowing the characters for a little bit of fun.

AN: Big thanks to my betas Romanse, Gabi and T'eyla for their help and support!

A fair warning first, this is a rather dark story, taking place in an AU quite different from the Enterprise universe that we know. Those of you who have read "Hunter" may notice certain parallels, and actually, this story was written because I wondered how the boys would have reacted if their roles in "Hunter" had been exchanged. It's not necessary to have read "Hunter" to understand the plot, though; it's a different setting and (hopefully) works as a story of its own.

Sorry for the long Author's Note, and, as always, all feedback is very welcome :)!

* * *

Chapter 1

„Or this one over there. He's very obedient, we've had him for a while."

_He sounds like one of those people in the Adopt Me shows_, Malcolm thought. "_A friendly fellow, only fifteen years old, and he may bite off your toes when you're not careful, but he's so loving!"_

Duvall seemed interested in the blond man the trader had pointed out. "How old is he?"

"Oh, can't be older than twenty-five," the trader said.

_Make that twenty-nine_, Malcolm thought. He wished the Captain would hurry up so they could get out of here. The room smelled, doubtlessly because of the twenty or so men who were sitting huddled together on the dirty floor behind the bars. None of them looked like someone Malcolm would have liked to share his living quarters, much less his bed with, but, of course, the Captain would have his toy washed before it was introduced to its new duties. And of course, the washing would be Malcolm's job.

_I can hardly wait. Not._

"I'd like to have a look at him," Duvall said.

"Of course, sir." The trader waved at one of his men. Whip in hand, the guard opened the door to the holding space and went inside, whacking those who didn't scramble out of his way fast enough. The blond man at the back seemed to have realized that it was him the guard was coming for. He shrank further into his corner, and pulled away when the guard reached for him. When the whip came down on his bare back, he cried out and kicked at the guard.

"Obedient, huh?" Duvall asked as they watched the man being dragged to his feet. The guard continued to whip him as he herded him towards the door, and by the time he was being pushed outside, there was blood trickling down his back and shoulders.

"Well, he needs to be trained, of course," the trader said.

Malcolm looked at the filthy, miserable thing standing in front of Duvall and secretly crossed his fingers that the Captain would come to his senses and leave, preferably in the next five seconds. Why anyone would waste their money in this dump, he could not understand, and Duvall certainly had enough to go to some place with no cockroaches on the floor.

"Can he take those off?" Duvall nodded at the man's gray rags, which might have been boxer shorts one day.

"Certainly." The trader stepped behind the man and gave the boxers a sharp tug. Since the man was little but skin and bones, they immediately dropped around his ankles. The man gasped, and the startled expression on his face made Duvall laugh out loud.

The trader grinned. "Well, he's got nothing to hide, as you can see."

Malcolm thought that the man rather looked as if he wanted to hide when Duvall walked towards him. Eyes wide, he pulled back a little, only to receive a sharp slap from the trader.

"Keep still, will you."

The man obeyed, holding still as Duvall examined his eyes, looked in his mouth and squeezed his arms. When the Captain felt him between the legs, he flinched but otherwise made no sound. Finally, Duvall stepped back and nodded.

"Everything seems to be in working order. How much do you want for him?"

As they began to haggle over the price, Malcolm took a closer look at Duvall's new plaything-to-be. The man was of average height, a little too skinny although his muscular arms and legs testified to the fact that he was used to physical labor. His face was maybe the most interesting thing about him – while not exactly handsome, it was very expressive and, even with dirt and grime on it, had a certain, boyish charm. Suddenly, the man raised his head, and Malcolm found himself scrutinized by a pair of startlingly blue eyes. He quickly looked away, pretending he hadn't noticed.

"...fivehundred and sixty-five credits," Duvall said. "My last offer."

The trader sighed. "Well, it's less than he's worth, but..." He held out a hand for Duvall's money chip. "It's a deal."

Duvall grinned.

* * *

_Oh dear God... where to start?_

The naked body in front of Malcolm was so filthy that the skin had taken on a gray hue in places, and the smell was just awful. The man's back was covered with welts, old ones and those he had received earlier when the guard had beaten him up, and the insides of his thighs were mottled with fading bruises.

_Go figure._

He cleared his throat. Might as well get started right now and get it over with. "Well, let's get you into the shower, shall we?"

The man didn't move, and Malcolm sighed inwardly. Duvall had told him to wash his new slave before taking him to the doctor for a thorough examination, and the Captain wouldn't be pleased if his toy wasn't ready and waiting for him when he went to bed. In fact, he might be displeased enough to have Malcolm standing guard in front of his quarters all night, the usual punishment when Malcolm didn't fulfill his duties as a bodyguard and personal "assistant" to Duvall's satisfaction.

"Shower," he repeated, and nodded at the cubicle behind them. "You need to wash."

The man only stared at the floor. Malcolm waited, wondering what was wrong. It didn't look as if the man was offering passive resistance, at least not on purpose; the expression on his face was scared rather than rebellious. But he still didn't move, and Malcolm was beginning to get impatient.

"What is it?"

The man raised his head, and looked at Malcolm for the first time. "I... can't," he said hoarsely, his voice and inflection sounding somewhat off, although Malcolm could not have said exactly what it was that sounded strange.

"What?" he asked. "You can't what?"

The man pointed at his left, then at his right ear. "I'm deaf," he said, very quietly.

Malcolm stared at him. "You're deaf?" he repeated, pointed at his own ears and shook his head. "You can't hear at all?"

He made a gesture to express finality, and the man nodded.

"I'm deaf," he said again, in that strange inflection of his. "Don't understand."

Malcolm closed his eyes and sighed. Bloody fantastic. When Duvall found out, he was going to hit the roof, especially since they couldn't turn around and ask for his money back. The trader's ship would have long disappeared from the station, and Starfleet would not be happy if they learned that Duvall had altered _Shenandoah's_ course just to return damaged goods.

He looked back at the man, who was watching him anxiously, obviously expecting an angry outburst, maybe even a blow. Malcolm shook his head.

"Well, it's not your fault, is it," he said. "You still have to wash, though. Come on," he took the man's arm and steered him towards the shower, opened the sliding door and pointed at the fittings inside. "Wash," he said, careful to look at the man and pronounce the word clearly so that it could be read from his lips. "Shower."

The man nodded and carefully reached out to turn on the faucet, as if he had never seen a shower before. When the warm water came down on him, he flinched and made as if to pull back, but Malcolm motioned for him to stay put. He went to get a bottle of shampoo from a shelf and handed it to the man, who took it but didn't seem to know what he was supposed to do.

Malcolm sighed inwardly. Using both hands, he signed to the man to open the bottle by unscrewing its lid, then mimed turning it upside down over his head. The man stared at him, then, hesitantly, began to undo the top. When it was open, he brought the bottle to his nose and smelled, his eyes widening at the scent. Again, he glanced at Malcolm, as if to ask if this thing of luxury was actually meant for him.

Malcolm had to stifle a grin. "Go ahead," he said. "Wash your hair."

The man carefully squeezed a dollop of shampoo onto his head, then held his head under the shower. The water washed away the shampoo almost at once, foaming up the water at the man's feet. The man seemed a little confused about the whole exercise, but gamely raised the bottle to repeat the procedure.

Malcolm sighed. "No," he said, carefully pronouncing the word. "You need to massage it in before rinsing." When it was obvious that the man had not understood him, he demonstrated with his hands. "Like this, see."

He brought his hands up to his head and began to massage his scalp. The man stared at him, and suddenly turned a deep red. Half turning away from Malcolm, he began to wash his hair properly, massaging his head for almost two minutes before he held it under the shower to rinse. It took Malcolm a while before he realized that the man was ashamed.

"It's okay," he found himself saying, even though he knew that the man couldn't hear him. If he had never seen a shampoo bottle before in his life, he supposed he wouldn't know what to do with it, either. It wasn't as if the thing came with a manual. And he began to wonder how this man had lived, in a world so different from his own that even a bottle of shampoo was a foreign thing to him.

As he waited for the man to finish, he automatically checked the skinny body for any leftover traces of dirt, and it was then that he noticed the swollen red wound on the man's thigh.

"What's that?"

The man seemed to have seen his lips move and turned towards Malcolm. "Sir?" he asked hoarsely.

Malcolm pointed at the man's leg. "That," he said. "What is it?"

The man glanced down at the injury, as if he had only now remembered that it was there. "For a while," he said.

Malcolm frowned. "You've had it for a while? How did you get it?"

The man only looked at him.

"I mean..." Malcolm trailed off. Then he pointed at the wound again, giving the man a questioning look and mouthing: "How?"

The man looked at his feet. Then he said very quietly, "With a knife. One 'f the guards..."

_Of course._

Malcolm could guess how the man had received the wound, and he knew better than to ask for details. Now that the man had washed, Malcolm could see for himself what Duvall had seen even under the layers of dirt and grease – an attractive body, lean but well-muscled, with golden skin and mussed, dark-blond hair. No wonder the guards had singled this one out for their personal after-duty amusement.

"The doctor will have a look at it," he said. "Come on, dry off and get dressed. We have an appointment in sickbay."

TBC…

Please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for the reviews! Sorry that the opening chapter was a little short, the following ones will be longer. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 2

Sickbay, with its rows of beeping monitors and gleaming equipment, seemed to intimidate the man. He swallowed nervously and glanced back at the door as if to check whether the escape route was clear.

Phlox chose that moment to appear in the door of the adjoining lab, smiling when he saw them. "Ah, Mr. Reed!"

The man, who had noticed the movement, flinched and gasped when the doctor came closer, and began to back off towards the door. Malcolm took his arm and held him firmly in place. Under the man's skin, he could feel the hardened muscles tremble.

"You can't leave," Malcolm said. "The doctor needs to examine you."

Phlox pulled off his lab coat. "I take it this is the Captain's new purchase?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes." He sighed. "And I'm afraid he can't hear."

Phlox gave him a surprised look. "Does the Captain know?"

Malcolm shook his head. "The trader never said a word about him being deaf."

Phlox nodded thoughtfully and gave the man a long look. There was compassion in his blue eyes, and Malcolm hoped that the doctor would refrain from any insubordinate comments this time. Phlox didn't approve of the human system of slavery, even though the enslaved caste were an inferior class of beings, simple of mind and lacking the genetic enhancements the master caste received while still in their mothers' wombs. Malcolm respected the doctor's opinion – Phlox wasn't human, after all – but he wished the doctor would keep his thoughts to himself while in Malcolm's presence. As a bodyguard, Malcolm had sworn an oath of loyalty to his captain, and he could ill afford to disregard it. When Duvall had taken him in, it had been an act of mercy more than anything else, and the best thing that had ever happened to Malcolm. He was not going to risk his luck by listening to ill-advised remarks.

"Well, let's take a look at you," Phlox said to the man and gestured for him to take a seat on one of the bio beds. The man stayed where he was, hands clenched to fists and his breathing coming in quick, harsh gasps. Malcolm could sense his fear that was bordering on panic.

Phlox eyed him for another moment, then smiled carefully and raised his hands as if to show that he didn't intend to do any harm.

"I am Dr. Phlox," he said slowly and with exaggerated pronunciation. "What is your name?"

The man said nothing, although his breathing seemed to have slowed down a little. Malcolm realized that he hadn't even asked for the man's name; it had simply never occurred to him.

Phlox pointed at himself and pronounced "Phlox", then at the man, raising his eyebrows enquiringly.

The man hesitated, then, slowly, raised a hand and rested it on his chest. "M'name's Tucker," he said softly.

Phlox smiled and nodded. "Well then, why don't you sit down, Mr. Tucker." He patted onto the bio bed. "Here, take a seat."

Tucker hesitated for another moment or two, then slowly began to walk over to the bed. Encouraged by a nod from Phlox, he climbed onto it and settled himself carefully on the edge, never taking his eyes off the doctor.

Phlox smiled. "I'll need you to remove your shirt," he said, and lifted the rim of his own shirt to demonstrate. Tucker didn't seem to understand.

"Your shirt," Phlox repeated, pointing at it. "You'll have to take it off."

Tucker's eyes widened. He swallowed hard, then slowly began to pull off the plain white t-shirt he had been given after his shower. Malcolm could see in his eyes that he had no doubts as to what was going to happen now, and that he was trying not to let his feelings show.

He watched Phlox, obviously waiting for the order to take off the rest of his clothes. If the doctor had noticed, then he never let it on. He picked up his hand scanner and began to run it over his patient, his eyebrows drawing together as he studied the readings on the bio monitor over the bed. Tucker's eyes traveled from the scanner to the screen and back to Phlox. It was obvious that he had never seen this kind of equipment before, had maybe never even been submitted to a medical examination. Malcolm inwardly shook his head. These people were so primitive it was a small miracle that they could be trained to work on spaceships. Of course, in the work camps where the slaves were bred there were no such things as doctors or even

nurses. From what Malcolm had heard, those places were little more than pens where the people toiled at the assembly lines or in the warehouses all day and slept packed like sardines on the straw-covered floor at night. It was really no wonder Tucker had never seen a shower or a hand scanner in his life.

_Primitive. Or maybe just brutalized._ Malcolm quickly pushed the thought aside. He was the last person aboard who had any business to be thinking such things.

"Unbelievable."

At the doctor's muttered remark, Malcolm raised his head. Phlox was frowning down at his handscanner, Tucker watching him anxiously.

"Unbelievable," the doctor repeated, his frown intensifying.

Malcolm went to join him next to the bio bed. "What is it, doctor?"

Phlox glanced up, his face grim. "What your people do to each other is unbelievable."

_Not again._ Malcolm tried hard to keep his face neutral. "Please explain, doctor."

"Mr. Tucker is not deaf because of a birth defect or an accident," Phlox said harshly. "Someone – his former owner, I suppose – has placed tiny devices in his brain to disable his hearing abilities. He was _made_ deaf, Lieutenant."

Malcolm said nothing. He had heard of such things being done, of masters who had surgery done on their slaves' speech center so they couldn't pass on critical information they might overhear while serving drinks or dusting the mantelpiece. Tucker's owner had made sure that his slave wouldn't even be able to hear the things that were not meant for his ears – or anything at all, for that matter.

He didn't tell Phlox that Tucker's former master had been within his legal rights to do so. "Is there anything you can do about it, doctor?"

"I can reverse the procedure, yes. The surgery will take a few hours, however."

Malcolm suppressed a sigh, knowing that what he had to say next would only serve to rekindle the doctor's anger. "I'm afraid it'll have to wait then, doctor. The Captain goes off duty within the next half an hour, and he wants him to be ready by then."

As he had expected, Phlox' face darkened at the news. "I assume the Captain cannot be convinced to do without his evening amusement so I can help this man regain his hearing?"

Malcolm clenched his jaw. "The decision doesn't lie with me, doctor. I'm merely following my orders."

"Very commendable," the doctor replied, and Malcolm turned away, trying to ignore the sarcasm behind the words. Phlox wasn't Human, and so he didn't understand that there were some people who could afford a mind of their own, and some people, like Malcolm, who couldn't. He had long ago exchanged the privilege of free thought for a better living, and had never regretted the decision. At least he knew what to do with a shampoo bottle when he saw one, and slept on a cot instead of the floor. Small things, maybe, but it were the small things that could decide whether your life was worth living.

"The wound on his leg needs treating," he said without looking at the doctor. "If you don't mind..."

"You do not need to tell me how to do my job," Phlox answered coldly and turned his back on Malcolm. Tucker had eyed them carefully during their short exchange, obviously sensing that it was him they were talking about. The doctor motioned for him to lie down on his stomach, and he quietly obeyed, resting his head on his hands. When Phlox began to spread a cool salve on his scarred back and shoulders, he flinched a little, but held still until the doctor was finished.

When he was done, Phlox leaned forward so that Tucker could see his face. "I'm going to take care of your leg now," he said, and pointed at his own leg to demonstrate. "Is that all right, Mr. Tucker?"

Tucker didn't seem to have understood, or maybe he had never been asked for his permission on anything before. He only stared back at the doctor, and Phlox gave him a smile that was obviously meant to be reassuring. "Don't worry, it won't hurt."

Tucker didn't seem reassured, and bit down on his lip when his boxershorts were pushed up so Phlox could reach the wound on his thigh. The doctor shook his head at the swollen, inflamed state of the injury, then picked up a numbing spray which he administered to the infected area before he began to clean it. Tucker lay still during the procedure, his face tense as if he were waiting for the pain to start, wondering why it didn't come. Malcolm was pretty sure that the man had never even heard of such things as painkillers.

After he had cleaned away the pus and blood, Phlox began to remove the necrotic skin from around the wound, dabbing off the blood that emerged from the injured flesh. Malcolm noticed that he held the scalpel so that Tucker could not see what he was doing. Tucker for his part didn't even bother to look. He kept his eyes closed while Phlox worked on him, and only the tension around his mouth suggested that he was very aware of the scalpel that was cutting into his skin, even though the analgesic was blocking the pain. Malcolm suddenly found himself wondering why he had been stabbed in the first place. Had he refused to submit to the guards? _Possible_, Malcolm thought, remembering the man's resistance when the trader had ordered him to be taken out of the holding cell. Didn't seem to be the cooperative type, regardless of what the trader had said.

When he was done, Phlox dressed the wound and administered another painkiller, then turned around to Malcolm again.

"Tell the Captain to be careful. It's in his own interest; if the infection spreads, I'll have no choice but to keep Mr. Tucker in sickbay."

Malcolm chose not to notice the hostile tone of voice and nodded. "Thank you, doctor." He touched Tucker's arm, and the man immediately scrambled into a sitting position. "Come on."

Tucker slid off the bed, careful not to jostle the bandaged area.

"Come on," Malcolm repeated, not looking back as he left. Tucker followed him slowly. On the way to the exit, Malcolm could feel the doctor's eyes between his shoulderblades, and was relieved when the sickbay door closed behind them.

* * *

"I've been waiting for almost twenty minutes, _Lieutenant_." As always when he was angry, Duvall sneered the word, as if it were a ridiculous appellation for someone like Malcolm. "Is there any explanation for your tardiness, or is it just that you're generally incompetent and unable to follow the simplest of orders?"

Malcolm glanced at Tucker, whose eyes were downcast, hands clasped behind his back. He wore the traditional garb of a slave serving in his function – loose, silky pants made of a diaphanous material that did little to conceal what was underneath, and nothing on top. He seemed to be feeling uncomfortable in this attire, even more so after they had entered the Captain's quarters and he had been exposed to Duvall's leery stare. Malcolm felt a touch of compassion when he thought of what would happen once he had left. Not for anything in the world would he have wanted to be in Tucker's place.

"I'm sorry, Captain," he said, steeling himself for the angry outburst that was certain to follow his next words. "There were some... complications."

Duvall's face grew darker. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Malcolm took a deep breath. "I'm afraid Tu-, I mean the man, can't hear, sir. Dr. Phlox said that he was made deaf by his former owner."

Duvall got up. "_What_?"

"The doctor can reverse the procedure," Malcolm hurried to add. "I only told him to wait because it was your express wish to have him brought to your quarters tonight."

"This is unbelievable," Duvall said, his voice getting louder as he continued. "Unbelievable! And to think that I've payed five-hundred sixty-five credits for... for this!"

He grabbed Tucker's arm and roughly pulled him closer. "Why didn't you say something, huh? Goddamn lying slut!"

Tucker only stared at him, wide-eyed and terrified.

"Answer me!" Duvall shouted, shaking him. "Did they tell you to act as if you could hear? At least until they were gone with the money? They tell you that?"

"I..." Tucker took a deep, trembling breath and swallowed. "D... don't understand, sir..."

Duvall slapped him hard across the face. "Useless piece of shit!"

A thin trickle of blood ran out of Tucker's nose and down the side of his mouth. Malcolm saw tears gathering in the man's eyes and guessed that they were from the pain as much as from the fact that he was being hit and shouted at and didn't have the slightest idea why.

He stepped forward. "Sir, if you wish I can take him back down to the doctor for the surgery-"

Duvall let go of Tucker and rounded on him. "I can't remember asking you for your opinion, Lieutenant! You do not speak without permission, and just so you understand exactly what this means, you'll be standing guard in front of my quarters for the next four nights! Is that clear?"

Malcolm stood to attention. "Yes sir."

"Now get out of here!"

"Yes sir."

_Four sleepless nights. Wonderful._

It wasn't the first time that he had to take the rap when there was no one else Duvall could blame, but this time it seemed particularly unfair. It wasn't his fault Duvall had purchased damaged goods, and come to think of it, it wasn't Tucker's fault, either.

He glanced back and saw Tucker raising a hand to wipe the blood off his face. For a moment, their eyes met, then Malcolm quickly glanced away.

_It's not as if I can do anything._

He left without looking back.

TBC...

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for all those lovely reviews!!

**Warning**: Please note that this chapter is rated "R" for **adult situations and violence**; I've considered leaving out the scene in question, but eventually decided against it because it is necessary for the plot and the story. Please don't read if you feel that it might offend you. Thanks!

* * *

Chapter 3

His mother had called him Charles, but he had been too young to remember. They had been separated when he was two, he to be sent to the rearing house, his mother to conceive her next child. He had never seen her again, but that was normal. No one at the work camps knew their parents, and only some knew their last name, if they met someone who could read the tattoo on their left shoulder. His said "Tucker", because that was what his mother had been called. It was the only thing he knew about her, and he treasured the knowledge like a precious possession. A name was a sign, something to distinguish a person, to single her out among the crowd and give her a face, if only in his imagination. _Tucker._ It was how he introduced himself, on the rare occasions when someone asked for his name. In fact, his name was the only thing he really owned, considering that he didn't even own his own body.

The door closed behind the soldier who had brought him here, and he knew that he was on his own now. For a moment, it had seemed as if the man was trying to speak on his behalf, and Tucker had wondered why anyone would do such a thing. He had seen something strange in the soldier's eyes, that moment before he had turned to leave, something he couldn't quite categorize. Shame? Indifference? Anger? Yes, there had been anger, but not at him. Maybe at this man, his new owner, who had shouted at him for some reason Tucker could not comprehend. He wondered why the man insisted on talking to him at all; the trader must have told him that Tucker couldn't hear. The comparatively small price the man had paid for him certainly suggested that the trader had given a discount because he was deaf.

The man – the captain, as the soldier had addressed him – came towards him, and Tucker tensed, expecting another blow. Instead, the man gave him a long look, then shrugged and said something. Tucker had some experience in reading lips, but he could only do it when the words were spoken slowly and precisely. As it was, he only caught the last few words of what the man had said: "...really matter, does it."

When the man took his arm and led him through a door into the adjoining bedroom, Tucker didn't resist. The wound on his thigh was a recent reminder of the many reasons why it was better not to fight, better to give in and wait for it to be over. Sometimes, he had fought all the same, had kicked and punched and struggled, although he knew that it was to no avail. Today, though, he didn't have the strength left to offer resistance and take the punishment that was sure to follow. He was so very tired, and only wanted for the inevitable to be over so he could get some sleep.

The captain pushed him down on the bed, his hands trailing over Tucker's back and moving further down. He felt fingers closing around the waistband of those see-through pants he had been made to wear, tugging them down until his backside was exposed. A hand squeezed his left buttock hard enough to hurt, while the other hand ripped his pants all the way down and disposed of them with a flick of the wrist. The bed under him wobbled as the captain impatiently removed his own clothing. Tucker closed his eyes and didn't resist when his legs were forced apart. This wasn't the first time this was happening to him, and he had had worse, but it still hurt enough to bring tears to his eyes. The man on top of him was breathing heavily – Tucker could feel the warm puffs of air on his back – and lay still for a moment before he began to move. There was pain, and sometimes a brief moment of arousal that was even less welcome than the hurt. Tucker kept his eyes closed, tasting blood on his tongue and feeling sweaty hands digging into his hips. It didn't take very long until the man shuddered convulsively and went limp, burying his face in Tucker's back. Tucker lay still, waiting. Finally, the man had recovered, pulled away and rolled over onto his back. Tucker let out the breath he had been holding. There was warm, sticky liquid trickling down the inside of his thighs, his behind burned and stung like hell, and the wound on his thigh was throbbing from the friction it had been exposed to, but, and that was important, it was over. He had fulfilled his purpose, and would now be left alone so he could sleep. It was all he had wanted in the first place.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he raised his head. The captain's face was still flushed from the exertion, but the anger of before was gone. Tucker was relieved to see it; he had half expected that the man would hit him again for whatever infraction he had committed.

The man's lips moved, and Tucker concentrated hard to catch the words, not wanting the man to get angry again. "...get a towel," the captain seemed to be saying.

"Yes sir."

He rolled over to get up, careful not to soil the expensive-looking sheets, and went over to the door the man indicated with a wave of his hand. Inside, there was another "shower", only larger and more luxurious than the one the soldier had shown him to, as well as a lengthy white basin that was obviously designed to be filled with water. These people had to be richer than anyone he had ever met in his life. Then again, this was the first time he had been inside a master's home. His former owner had never let him and the others inside the house. They had slept in a cramped, bungalow-like building next to the fields, their days filled with endless toil and a never-changing silence. Tucker knew why none of them could hear – the plants they were helping to grow and harvest were dangerous, and if the place was raided, their owner wanted to make sure that there were no names they could pass on to the police. He still remembered the day he had woken up to find that the people around him were moving their mouths, but had stopped talking. He had tapped his finger against the wooden floor, again and again, hoping against hope that the sound would return. That had been seven years ago.

He glanced around the large, tiled room, looking for something to clean himself up with. There was a box of paper towels next to the toilet, and he grabbed a bunch, wiped off the blood and stuffed the wad into his sore behind. It stung, but it was better than getting blood all over the carpeted floor. He could only imagine how much that floor was worth – probably ten times the sum the captain had paid for him.

He took a towel from a nearby shelf and returned to the bedroom. The captain acknowledged him with barely a glance, wiped himself down and threw the towel aside. Tucker kept his eyes on him, in case he was being spoken to, but the man seemed to have lost his interest in him, turned away and got a padd from his bedside table, relaxing as he began to read. As quietly as he could, Tucker picked up his pants from the floor next to the bed. He didn't like them, much less now that they were torn on one side, but wearing them was better than going naked. He put them back on and, not sure what was expected of him now, opted for the safest choice, which was remaining where he was until he received further orders.

He looked around the room. This had to be a huge ship, if they could afford to use that much space on one person's quarters, even if that person was the captain. He wondered if it had a name. He would never know, of course; he couldn't read, and it was unlikely that anyone would bother to tell him. He didn't even know the names of the people he had met; the soldier and the captain hadn't introduced themselves, and he hadn't quite caught the doctor's name. Something like "fox", but he was not going to risk being punished by calling him that. The doctor had to be an alien, the first one Tucker had seen in his life. He hadn't acted like a master, addressing him as "Mr. Tucker" and asking him questions instead of giving orders. Come to think of it, the soldier hadn't really acted like a master either. There was something about him that was unusual... different. It was in his looks, but also in the way he moved and talked, even though Tucker couldn't hear his voice. He was... afraid. Constantly afraid, more like a slave than a master. And he was alone. Tucker had been alone for most of his life, and he knew the look of someone who had nobody else. He had seen it in the man's gray eyes when he had left the captain's quarters.

The captain turned around and, on noticing that he was still standing there, said something, too quickly for Tucker to catch the words.

"Sir?" he asked, expecting another outburst. "'m sorry, sir."

The captain rolled his eyes in annoyance and waved at a corner of the room. "...go lie down... you today anymore."

Tucker gathered from the words he had caught that he was dismissed for today. He waited briefly and when the captain had turned away again, went over to the corner the man had indicated, eyes still on the bed in case he was called back. The captain ignored him, though, and as he lowered himself onto the soft carpet, Tucker realized just how tired he was. He was practically trembling with weariness, and even the pain in his backside and thigh were dulled by the overwhelming need for sleep. He lay down, his back to the room, and closed his eyes. He had never slept on any surface as soft as this floor, and despite the pain in his body and his mind, it wasn't long until he had fallen asleep.

* * *

Malcolm was trying hard to keep his eyes open as he followed, or rather staggered after the Captain into sickbay. Ten hours of standing guard would do that to you, and tonight had only been the first of four. He wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to survive 96 hours without sleep, but he would have to make do somehow. Maybe he could learn how to nap standing up; he had heard of people who could do that.

_And they probably all served under Duvall at some point._

He glanced at Tucker's back. It was obvious that the man had also "served" under Duvall last night, although not quite the way Malcolm usually did. His slave pants were ripped on one side, and he walked as if he were in some pain. His face showed no signs of shock or trauma, though, and Malcolm thought that this was probably what the man was used to.

_Close your eyes and think of England. Or of the Terran Dominion, in this case_. For some reason the thought wasn't even funny.

Phlox' greeting as he saw them was less than enthusiastic, and the look he gave Duvall was one of barely hidden disgust. Malcolm pretended not to have noticed.

"Is there something I can do for you, Captain?" the doctor asked, his tone implying that he could think of many things he'd rather do instead.

"Actually, there is." Duvall grabbed Tucker's arm and pulled him forward. "Reed said that there's something you can do about his hearing. Is that true?"

For some reason, Phlox face became even more closed-off than before. He turned away to place a tray of test tubes back on a shelf, his back and shoulders betraying tension

"Well?" Duvall asked. "Is there something you can do or not?"

Phlox turned around again. "I can remove the inhibitors, Captain," he said, in an oddly expressionless tone.

Duvall frowned. "Well, what's the problem then?"

Phlox continued in the same tone, staring at a point behind Duvall's left shoulder. "The problem is that it will change nothing about Mr. Tucker's condition." Finally, he turned his head to look at the Captain. "I've re-examined the scans I took yesterday. It appears that the devices were carelessly inserted in the first place, and have damaged the respective brain area to an extent that cannot be reversed. Mr. Tucker will never hear again, Captain."

Duvall stared at him. "Are you sure, doctor?"

Phlox met his eyes evenly. "I wish I wasn't, sir."

Tucker's eyes flickered back and forth between the Captain and the doctor, then he looked at Malcolm as if he were asking him to explain. Phlox had noticed and went to him, resting a hand on Tucker's thin shoulder.

"I'm afraid I cannot help you, Mr. Tucker," he said slowly, so Tucker would be able to read the words. "The things in your brain have done too much damage. I cannot restore your hearing."

Tucker nodded. He didn't seem perturbed by the news; in fact, he seemed surprised that Phlox would have thought otherwise at some point. "I know, sir," he said softly. "Nothin' an'one can do. 'm deaf."

Phlox nodded, looking sad. "I'm afraid so."

"Well, and now?" Duvall's voice had grown angry all of a sudden. "That's it?"

The doctor turned to face him. "Yes, Captain. That's it."

Duvall stared at him, and Malcolm crossed his fingers that the Captain would not interpret the doctor's tone as insubordinate (which it undoubtedly was). After a while, though, Duvall nodded, as if he had come to an understanding and a decision at the same time.

"I suppose so," he said slowly. "That's it." He looked at Malcolm. "Lieutenant, I want you to take him – " he nodded at Tucker – "down to Cargo Bay 2."

"Yes sir," Malcolm said, then hesitated as he received no further instructions. "Sir... what do you want me to do there?"

Duvall turned away, not looking at anyone as he answered. "I have no use for a deaf slave," he said.

It took Malcolm a moment before he fully understood what he had just been ordered to do. He looked at Phlox, who had gone very pale, at Tucker, who hadn't heard Duvall's words but seemed to sense the sudden tension, and back at the Captain.

"Sir..." He shook his head. "I don't..."

"There is an airlock down in the cargo bay," Duvall said, his back still turned towards the rest of them. "Shoot him first, though. Stun or kill, I don't care. Don't throw him out when he's still conscious."

"Captain..."

Phlox interrupted him. "Captain, this would be a very cruel and unnecessary thing to do," he said. Malcolm could hear that he was struggling to keep his voice calm. "If you don't want Mr. Tucker as your servant, I'm sure I can find something he can do here in sickbay. There is no need to-"

Duvall whirled around. "No one, and least of all you, will tell me what I can and cannot do. He's a useless drain on our resources, and I won't keep him aboard any longer than absolutely necessary." He turned to Malcolm. "I gave you an order, Lieutenant. I suggest you follow it immediately."

"Sir..." Malcolm hesitated. How did you question a direct order? It was certainly not something he had done before. "Sir, maybe the doctor is right. I don't think it's necessary to kill him when he can still be of use."

Duvall stared at him. Then he began to walk towards him until he was so close that Malcolm could feel the warm puffs of air as the Captain spoke.

"You _think_, Lieutenant? It was my impression that your job is to do what I say, and not to _think_. But seeing that you've started doing it anyway, you might want to try this one: think of your mother. Think of where she came from, and if that's really where you want to go. Because it would only take one word on my part. You might want to think about that, _Lieutenant_, before you question any of my orders again."

Malcolm stood perfectly still. Duvall was serious, he could see that, and he knew that one wrong move on his part – even a hasty, submissive apology – could lead to disaster. It was even harder since the mention of his mother had roused a burning anger in him, one he could barely keep from showing on his face. He loved her and he always had, even though it was her legacy that forced him to live the life he did, crouching at another man's feet and asking "How high?" when Duvall told him to jump.

She had been a chambermaid in a bachelor admiral's house, and when she had become pregnant, no one had asked much about the father. The admiral had ordered that the child was to receive prenatal injections, and again, no one had dared to ask why, although it was only the master caste that was allowed genetic enhancements. When the boy was born, the admiral had never paid him much attention, sending him away to military school as soon as possible. Against everyone's expectations, he graduated best of his year, and was almost immediately recruited by the Fleet. He could never rise to any of the higher ranks, of course – even the fact that he was a Lieutenant was a small miracle – and everybody, including the junior crewmen looked down on him, but, and that was what was important, he counted as a human being. It was the only thing that really mattered to Malcolm, and now he knew he was coming very close to losing it once and for all. And all he could do was stand there and wait for it to happen.

Duvall let the silence continue for a while, then he finally took a step back. "Well, have you come to a decision whether you would like to follow my order or not?"

Malcolm looked away. The doctor was staring at him, one hand still on Tucker's shoulder, a strange expression in his eyes as he met Malcolm's gaze. And then he said something, mouthing the words so that Duvall wouldn't hear him.

"Say yes."

Malcolm blinked. This was not what he would have expected of Phlox. Unlike Malcolm, the doctor was certainly the type to sacrifice himself for the greater good, and to hell with the consequences. But maybe even Phlox recognized a lost cause when he saw one.

_Tucker is going to be killed anyway. And if **I** do it, at least he won't be tortured beforehand._

Malcolm turned back to the Captain. "Yes sir," he said.

Duvall nodded slowly. "Very well... Lieutenant."

Malcolm watched him as he left, wishing that he could at least find it within himself to loathe the Captain for making him do this. Instead, he only felt an odd resignation with the fact that he was about to do what this man had ordered him to do, no matter if he would still be able to look himself in the eyes when it was over. If he was being honest, he had stopped looking himself in the eyes a long time ago.

The door closed behind the Captain and Malcolm looked at Phlox. He avoided Tucker's eyes, although he wasn't even sure whether the man knew that Duvall had ordered him to be thrown out like so much trash. If he hadn't, then Malcolm wasn't going to tell him. Maybe he could make it so that the man never even realized what was happening.

He wasn't sure whether it was disgust or pity he saw in the doctor's eyes. "Lieutenant," Phlox said. "I suggest we act quickly."

Phlox wanted to come along? "Doctor," Malcolm began, "I don't think that this is such a good idea." He brought a hand up to his mouth, to be sure Tucker wouldn't read his lips. "I... I don't want him to know, and I think he'll suspect something if you're there."

Now it was definitely disgust in the doctor's eyes. "Lieutenant, I have no intention of letting you dispose of Mr.Tucker."

Malcolm stared at him. "You told me to say yes."

"And you always do what you're told, isn't that right, _Lieutenant_?"

Suddenly, Malcolm was angry. "It's easy for you to-"

"I don't have time for this," the doctor interrupted in a dismissive tone that infuriated Malcolm even further. "In fact, _we _don't have time for this. As I said, we have to act quickly."

"I don't have to do anything!" Malcolm had trouble keeping his voice down.

Phlox didn't even look at him. He had opened a wall compartment and picked up a bag, in which he began to throw in a seemingly random manner some of the clothes his patients had left.

"This won't work without you, Lieutenant."

"_What_ won't work without me?"

Finally, Phlox turned around, the stuffed duffel bag in hand. "You and Mr. Tucker have to steal one of the shuttles and make your getaway before the Captain becomes suspicious. As far as I'm informed, there is a supply of water and ration packs in each of the pods, I suggest you make use of those. As I said, we have little time."

"Are you-" Malcolm realized that he was shouting, and lowered his voice. "Are you out of your mind, doctor? I can't do that!"

Phlox only looked at him. "Is there an alternative, Lieutenant?"

There was a lot that came to Malcolm's mind in answer to the doctor's question, among other things how someone could easily afford to be a self-righteous bastard if the worst thing that could happen to him was a dishonorable discharge. Then, however, he looked at Tucker for the first time since Duvall had left. It wasn't fair that the man should have to witness this, considering what was going to happen to him soon.

He said nothing in response, and reached for Tucker's arm instead. "Come," he said quietly. "Let's go."

Tucker gave him a nervous glance, then looked back at Phlox. To Malcolm's surprise, the doctor only smiled and nodded, ignoring Malcolm as he said: "It will be all right, Mr. Tucker."

Malcolm only shook his head.

TBC...

Please leave a review and let me know what you think. Thank you!


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Sorry, this one's a bit late... thanks for all the kind reviews!

* * *

Chapter 4

Cargo Hold 2 was on F-Deck, a journey of maybe five minutes if you went there from sickbay. Today, it seemed to take at least an hour. Malcolm took long strides, his right hand still firmly grasping Tucker's upper arm. He never looked at the man who was following him quietly, didn't want to see the anxious expression in his eyes.

_Why did he have to pick you, of all the choices he had? All he wanted was a nice piece of ass, a quick jerk-off for his after-duty hours. Any of them would have done. Why you?_

Tucker took a sharp breath, and Malcolm realized that he was squeezing the arm he was holding hard enough to leave bruises. Quickly, he let go and shifted his grip a little.

"Sorry," he said. Tucker really was the last one to blame for the bloody mess Malcolm had manoevred himself into. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

To his surprise, Tucker smiled at him, albeit nervously. "'s okay, sir," he said in that strange way of his. _Must be what happens when you haven't heard your own voice in a while_, Malcolm thought, and found himself even more surprised when the man continued.

"Sir... c'n I ask y' 'mething?"

Malcolm nodded slowly, hoping that the man wasn't going to beg him to spare his life. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

The man, however, seemed to have no intention to beg. "What's y' name, sir?"

At this, Malcolm stopped. "My..." He trailed off. He had no idea why the man would want to know, or why he would even consider answering the question. But, he thought, given the situation it was maybe only fair that he did.

"My name is Malcolm Reed," he answered slowly, so the man would have time to decipher his lip movements. "Malcolm Reed."

The man watched his mouth carefully. "Malcolm Leed," he repeated then.

Malcolm startled himself by smiling at the man. "No," he said. "Reed. With an R. Like... like Tucker. There's an R in Tucker. Tucker-r," he stressed the last letter. "See?"

The man had watched him out of squinted eyes, his tongue going to a corner of his mouth as he concentrated. Then he seemed to understand and smiled again.

"Reed," he said, and looked at Malcolm. Malcolm saw humor dancing in his blue eyes, humor and a warm intelligence that startled him even more than the smile. "An R l'ke in Tucker. Gotcha."

Malcolm knew what he had to do now. He had to take the man's arm, lead him down to the Cargo Bay, tell him to stand with his face to the wall and pull the trigger. Easy enough, and there was no way he could afford to be standing here and conversing with the person he was supposed to get rid of. Only that Duvall wouldn't call him a person.

"What's your first name?" Malcolm asked, careful to speak slowly. "I only know that your last name is Tucker."

"Don' have 'ne," Tucker replied. "Jus' Tucker, that's it."

_That's it_. Exactly the same words Duvall had used when he had come up with his bright idea about the airlock.

"Do you have a nickname or something?"

Tucker frowned. "Sorry, sir?"

"A nickname?" It was obvious that the man had no idea what he was talking about, and Malcolm continued, "You know, what people call you, like..." He racked his mind for any nicknames that he knew that did not refer in any way to unflattering body parts, but could only come up with a name by which one of his fellow cadets at the Academy had been known. "You know, something like Trip, for example."

"Trip?" Tucker repeated, obviously listening to the name in his head. Then he smiled. "I don' have a name l'ke that, b't it soun's nice. Trip Tucker."

Malcolm listened to the sound of the name, and knew that he could as well have listened to the pronouncement of his own life sentence. He might have been able to shoot Tucker and throw the body out of an airlock, although he was beginning to doubt that as well. He knew though, and in this there was no doubt involved, that he could not, and would not, kill Trip Tucker. And apparently Phlox had known it long before he had.

_Damn the bloody quack, anyway._

"Trip Tucker," he repeated slowly. "Yes, that sounds nice."

Tucker – or rather, Trip – seemed pleased. "Then y' can call me that, if y' l'ke. Sir," he added, suddenly nervous again, as if he had just realized whom he was talking to.

Malcolm smiled. "I would like that."

"Sir..." Some of the nervousness lingered in Trip's tone when he asked: "Wh're are we goin', sir?"

_Where indeed_. Malcolm was silent for a moment. Then he reached out, laying a hand on the other man's arm for emphasis. "Trip, it is very important that you do exactly what I say now. Do you understand?"

Trip nodded. He looked worried.

"Over there is a storage closet. I want you to hide in there and wait for me. I'll be back as quickly as I can, okay?"

"Yes sir."

Malcolm noticed the doubt in Trip's eyes, and tightened his grip on Tucker's arm before he let go again. "Trust me?"

At that, Trip met his eyes. He was silent for a moment, and Malcolm could only guess what was going on in his head.

"Yes," Trip said then. "I do."

* * *

Captain Duvall leaned back in his command chair, wondering what he had done to deserve a day like this. He had woken up with a roaring headache, as so often of late, a dull and at the same time painful throbbing behind his left eyebrow. Once or twice in the last few weeks he had even found himself kneeling in front of the toilet and puking his guts out from the pain. He hadn't seen the doctor about it, and intended to avoid doing so as long as he possibly could. The Denobulan hated him, and would be only too happy to "discover" some medical condition that would remove Duvall from command indefinitely... especially after today.

He sighed. That was another thing, and maybe even worse than the headache. He couldn't believe that he, Lars Duvall, had been taken in like that. The trader had even made it look like a good deal, as if he were selling him the young and good-looking slave at a low price just to do him a favor. And it was only when that little half-breed Reed had told him that there was something wrong that he had noticed at all. Unbelievable. If anyone back at Headquarters found out – and God knew there were enough desk pilots there who would be delighted to tell and re-tell the little anecdote – he would be the laughing stock of the Fleet. Captain Duvall, the one who buys retarded slaves and thinks he's making a good deal. I've got a bridge in Brooklyn I'd like to sell him. Incredibly funny.

And then the Denobulan had told him that he couldn't repair whatever damage had been done to the slave's brain. It had been the last straw, and Duvall had vented his anger by telling Reed to toss the man out of the airlock, and good riddance to bad rubbish. He had almost regretted it when he had seen the way Phlox and Reed had looked at him – as if he had just kicked everyone's favorite puppy – but once he had issued the order he couldn't really take it back. Especially not when Reed chose that moment to discover that he had a backbone after all, and had actually questioned his order. The little coward had backed off when Duvall mentioned his mother – of course he had – but the infraction had been committed and Duvall had to prove his authority. And so his new plaything was now drifting dead in space, and his day was utterly ruined. To add injury to insult, even his headache had grown worse instead of better.

A loud beep came from the helm station, and Duvall resisted the urge to cover his ears when the shrill sound lanced through his aching head. He would go see the doctor after his shift and get some painkillers, even if it gave the Denobulan ammunition to use against him. This was killing him.

"Sir?" Mayweather's voice penetrated the pounding in his head, and Duvall struggled not to let the pain show in his voice.

"Yes, Ensign?"

"The shuttle bay doors have been opened."

"_What?_" Duvall sat up straight. There was no mission scheduled, and it was standard protocol to call the bridge before launching. "Lock them."

Mayweather punched away at his console. "I can't, sir. Someone's changed the access codes."

He paused, then, "Shuttlepod 1 has just been launched."

Duvall got up. "Onscreen!" he snapped at the communications officer, who hurried to obey.

Shuttlepod I appeared on the large main screen as it moved away from _Shenandoah_ at top speed.

"Call them!" Duvall had a nasty suspicion as to what was going on, and he couldn't wait to get his hands on the Denobulan once he had him back aboard. Phlox was part of an interplanetary exchange program and so he could not throw him out the airlock along with the slave, but he would make sure that when Duvall was through with him, the good doctor would never forget to toe the line again.

"They're not answering," Sato announced from her station. "There are two life-signs aboard, Captain."

Of course. Well, the doctor was going to face a theft charge for that one, on top of everything else.

He turned to the tactical station. "Fire a warning shot!"

"Aye, sir." Commander Hayes pressed a button on his console, and a streak of fire raced past the shuttle.

"Call them again," Duvall said through clenched teeth. His head was hurting worse than ever before.

When the image of the shuttle's interior appeared on the main screen, Duvall was speechless for a moment. As he had expected, his slave was sitting on one of the rear seats, far from dead and throwing nervous looks at the screen. What he had not expected, though, was the person sitting in the pilot's chair.

"Reed!" he said when he had found his voice again. "Turn the shuttle around – now!"

The man on the screen shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that, sir."

This couldn't be true. "Reed, if you turn around NOW, it'll be a month in the brig for you. If not-"

"We're not going to turn around," Reed said. His voice was a little higher than usual, but he held his head high and spoke without hesitation. "If I were you, I wouldn't try to stop us, sir."

Duvall had had enough. "Target the shuttle, Hayes."

"I wouldn't do that, sir," Reed said, still in that infuriatingly calm tone.

Duvall didn't even look at him. "Watch me. Now, Hayes."

"Sir."

There was something to Reed's tone that made Duvall turn around again. Reed had something in his hand, something he was holding close to the visual recorder so that Duvall could see it. It was a small, inconspicuous-looking chip used for data storage, and at first Duvall had no idea what it was. Then he recognized the writing on the label, and suddenly he felt sick.

"How... how did you get this?" He hadn't even known that anyone knew about its existence, much less where he kept it.

"I believe it hardly matters how I got it, sir. You should know, though, that I've sent a copy of this to a friend of mine, with the instructions to forward it to Starfleet Command the moment something happens to me." His eyes bore into Duvall's as he continued. "I _think _you should let us go, sir."

Duvall wanted to fly into a fit of rage, but somehow, the sight of the little data chip had numbed him inside and out. If this ever appeared on any desk at Starfleet Headquarters, he would be drummed out of service in a matter of hours, and more likely than not spend the rest of his days in a penal colony in Alaska. If they didn't execute him right away.

"You're bluffing," he said, although he knew that it wasn't true. "I've no idea what you're talking about."

Only when he had finished did he realize that his last two statements contradicted each other in the worst possible way. Reed didn't seem to be impressed by either of them.

"Maybe," he said calmly. "But do you really want to take that risk, sir?"

Duvall closed his eyes for a second. His head felt as if it would explode with pain, and his rage was now starting to mingle with fear. One wrong move...

"Sir?" Hayes asked tentatively. "Do you want me to-"

"No!" Duvall opened his eyes again. "No, just..." He had no idea how to finish the sentence, and made a jerky gesture instead. "I'll find you, Reed. No matter where you run off to hide."

Reed pocketed the data chip, neatly closing the zipper of his uniform over it. Duvall could have strangled the little bastard.

"I doubt it, sir," he said. "Good luck."

He reached for something on his console and the screen changed to show the stars and Shuttlepod I, which a moment later fired its engines and streaked off into space.

The pain in Duvall's head had gotten so bad that he could barely see straight anymore.

The End...

...or not, actually. Originally, I had planned to end the story after a short epilogue about Trip and Malcolm adjusting to their new life. My beta – thanks so much, Romanse :)! - rightly pointed out to me that this would leave too many things unsaid, so I got started on a (Slash) sequel which I'll be posting on the Warp 5 Complex when it's done.

Now here comes my question: I know that some of you prefer to read friendship stories, and I don't want to "spoil" this for you by adding a Slash sequel. So, I'd be very grateful if you could write me a quick note if you would rather have a (short) epilogue that keeps the relationship between Trip and Malcolm pure friendship, or if you'd prefer a longer sequel in which their friendship eventually turns into love. I'll go with the majority, so please tell me what you'd like!

Thank you!

Sita


	5. Chapter 5

So many reviews... thank you!!

As to the case Slash versus Friendship: Five of you voted for friendship-only, while four of you were in favor of a Slash sequel (shakes the ballot box to see if she missed one). However, as Ad Absurdum, The Libran Iniquity and RoaringMice pointed out, there's always the possibility of having both – the friendship-only epilogue, and the longer Slash sequel as an alternate take on things. Since I feel it would be the most "democratic" solution, that's what I'll do... in short, the following epilogue is friendship, the sequel will be Slash. I hope I can start posting soon; I've got a big exam coming up and unfortunately can spend far less time writing than I would like to, but I'll do my very best :)!

Thanks again for the feedback!

* * *

Epilogue

Trip was in the workshop when Malcolm got home, sitting there with his back to the door and his nose buried in the disassembled parts of a music player. Malcolm allowed himself to linger for a moment, smiling fondly at the sight. When Trip worked on his repair jobs, he would get so absorbed that he completely forgot about his surroundings.

Not wanting to startle the other man, Malcolm announced his presence by stomping one foot on the wooden floor. Trip immediately turned around, smiling when he saw him.

"Hey." Malcolm smiled back and continued in sign language, "_How was your day_?"

"_Good_," Trip signed back. "_We got a few computers and a cooling unit today, although I'm afraid that last one's a lost cause._"

Malcolm grinned. He had heard that statement before, and knew what it meant: Trip would poke and tweak and torment that cooling unit until he had brought it back to life, even if it meant staying in the shop half of the night. Repairing was not a job to him, it was a passion, and every broken gadget a new challenge. Trip was often quiet and reserved, but when he was working with his beloved machines, a very different side of his personality came to the surface. Malcolm hoped that maybe one day, Trip would be able to show the same confidence around people. As it was, he was content with the fact that at least with him, Trip had learned to laugh and joke without flinching afterwards.

"Malcolm?"

At the sound of Trip's voice, Malcolm looked up.

"_You okay_?" Trip signed, giving him a questioning look.

Malcolm nodded. "_Yes, I was just thinking... what would you say if someone offered us a chance to expand our business_?"

Trip's eyes widened. "_You mean..._"

Malcolm grinned. He had been bursting with excitement on his way back from the city, and couldn't wait to tell Trip the news. "_I met a guy at the wholesaler this morning. We talked a little, and I told him that I've got some basic training as a space engineer, and that you're a natural when it comes to technical things. He's got a science project at the Research Center, something about a molecular converter unit, and they're looking for experts to help them with the hardware. He's human, by the way. His parents moved to Denobula when he was a boy, and he's been living here ever since. Introduced himself as Jonathan Archer_."

Malcolm had been a little nervous about Trip's reaction, but realized that he needn't have worried when he saw the other man's eyes lighting up as he talked.

"_And he's asked you to work for him_?" Trip signed.

Malcolm nodded. "_Us, actually. But..."_ He hesitated before he continued signing, "_It would mean that we would have to go to the city every day, maybe even live there during the week_."

He hadn't expected it, but Trip only nodded at this. "_That's okay. I need to get out more anyway._" He looked at Malcolm, and smiled, if a bit sadly. "_I don't think it's good for me to sit in here all day, all the time._"

Malcolm looked at him for a moment, then went over and pulled Trip in a quick hug. "You're one tough bugger, you know that?" he whispered, then let go again to sign the words.

Trip laughed softly. "You too," he said. "Always."

Malcolm joined in his laughter. "_Both of us_," he signed. "_Tough as nails_."

They grinned at each other, and Trip reached out to squeeze Malcolm's shoulder before he turned serious again.

"_Now," _he signed, eyes alight with anticipation_."Tell me about this project_..."

The End (for now)

Please let me know what you think!


End file.
